


Driven Outside and Driven In

by leupagus, screamlet, waldorph



Category: Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement (2004)
Genre: Deleted Scene, F/M, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, Plot What Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Nick and Mia would've totally Done It had it not been for the fact that this is a kid's movie.</p><p>*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bozaloshtsh was the instigator of this idea; leupagus began it, waldorph and screamlet made it happen. So there's lots of blame to go around.
> 
> *

**Closet**

"The point is--" Mia pauses. "What are you doing?"

"What?" Nicholas asks, still with his arm reaching over her shoulder.

"Oh, God," Mia realizes, horrified, "You're trying to be _smooth_."

"I am not!"

"You're trying to seduce me," she continues, watching the guilt flicker across his face. "I can't _believe_ you!"

"I was--"

"Trying to set the mood?" she asks. She can feel the laughter in her throat, so she bites her lip.

"The light hurt my eyes?" he tries.

"So you're a vampire in addition to being a usurper," she says.

"I'm a man of many surprises," he says and Mia bites down on her lip again. It's not laughter, exactly, she realizes - it's laughter and knowing that half the castle is looking for her right now, and the feel of Nicholas standing way too close, and twenty-seven days until she's married and queen and --

"Look, I don't know what seduction manuals you've been reading, but this isn't an ideal location for a tryst."

"A tryst?" he scoffs, but there's a moment of uncertainty in his eyes. It's gone in a second, and he says, "You think very highly of yourself, Your Highness."

She knows he means it to be teasing, but he's smiling - _smirking_ \- as if he's being charming, and suddenly all she wants to do is wipe that smile off his face for good. She can feel something twist in her gut, clench in her jaw.

"So you're saying that you're _not_ interested, Lord Deveraux? That if I beg you to take me now," she says, bolting the door shut, "If I put my hands on your chest and push you," and she does, shoving him up against the door which thank God doesn't rattle. She can hear someone walking down the hallway, and she waits for long moments before continuing, "If I tell you that I want you and I know you want me too--you'll just tell me I'm thinking highly of myself? Really?"

She's a few inches shorter than him, but his feet are planted well away from the door, taking away that advantage; when she curls her fingers into the collar of his shirt and steps between his legs, they're eye to eye.

"Lord Deveraux," she murmurs, "The princess of Genovia asked you a question."

"I would say--" Nicholas swallows; it's loud in the dark confines of the closet, almost as loud as Brigita's voice outside. Mia straddles his leg and lets her thigh slide up until she's pressed hard against his cock. He _flinches_, but when she rocks against him he takes a shuddering breath. "Your Highness," he rasps after a moment, like it took him a few moments to remember the words.

She's holding far too tightly to the collar of his shirt. She doesn't loosen her grip. "Yes, Lord Devereaux?"

"I think you--oh, God, please," he says, obviously distracted as she pushes her thigh up against his cock again. His leg, the one she's straddling, twitches, but he can't get leverage to do anything to her.

"Please what, Lord Devereaux?"

He finally seems to realize that he's got hands, and he lifts them to her face, his fingers sliding through her hair and _pulling_. It's almost painful, but she resists, pushing him away by his collar when he tries to kiss her. He makes a protesting noise that's all vowels; when she gets enough distance between them to see his face clearly, his eyes are wide and blue and confused. "Mia," he says; it sounds sweet.

She rolls her eyes and breaks his grip on her face, catching his wrists and pinning them to the door. "Don't move," she says.

"Is that a royal command?" Nicholas asks; that smirk is hovering over his face, waiting to come back.

"Don't talk, either. And yes, that's an order from your future queen." He opens his mouth, eyes narrowing, and she holds a finger up to his lips. "There's a maid's apron within reach, Lord Deveraux. Don't make me stuff it down your throat in order to keep you quiet."

He grins, and bites her finger.

Instead of pulling it away, she slides it further into his mouth. He closes his eyes and sucks, his tongue twisting around her finger as his teeth graze gently along the first and second knuckle. His hips jerk up against her, but she's got him pinned, leaning too far against the door to easily dislodge her - unless, of course, he disobeys.

She slides her finger out of his mouth and trails it down his chin, his throat, his chest, his stomach. He's shivering underneath her, and it's a kind of power, although not one she's ever been very interested in before. At Princeton she'd had boyfriends and dates and a few pretty regrettable one-night-stands, but none of them had ever been quite so... pliant.

She could do anything to him.

She unbuttons his slacks, sliding the zipper down. "You know," she says, conversationally, "I'm on to you." Nicholas opens his eyes; he looks confused, and opens his mouth, although he remembers in time to keep quiet. She reaches into his slacks and palms his cock, rubbing up the length of him through his - "Really, Lord Deveraux," she says, "Silk boxers? You're really embracing the cliche, aren't you?"

He manages to glare at her, which is kind of impressive.

"Anyway," she continues, sliding her hand up and down the length of his cock, hard and hot against his belly and still trapped in his boxers. He bunches his hands into fists, but doesn't move them. "I know exactly what you're trying to do. But you know what? I'm doing it to you, instead." His jaw clenches, and the flush at his neck has nothing to do with desire. "Does that bother you, Lord Devereaux?" she asks, and doesn't try to keep the glee out of her voice.

He's pissed, and it's gorgeous. She leans forward and nips at the hinge of his jaw, slides her mouth down his neck, feels her lips tingle with the slight roughness of his stubble. He lets his head knock against the door; they both freeze at the noise, but there's no noise in the hallway outside.

"This is nice, the you shutting up thing," she says, breathing against his ear, smelling the faint cologne and the clean sweat gathering at his collar. She wraps her hand around his cock through his boxers, the slippery material smooth against her palm. She grips him hard and swipes her thumb over the head; the precome wets the silk, staining the blue almost black. He shudders, his whole body shivering, and she squeezes his leg between her thighs to hold him still. "You're so annoying when you talk." She presses her thumb under the shaft. "I like you a lot better when you're whimpering."

He groans, and she claps her other hand over his mouth as he comes. His leg moves under her, and she hisses at the rough friction against her. She's wet - she's practically lightheaded with how much she wants to fuck him, but even more than that, she wants to win.

His boxers are a wreck, and she wipes her hand clean on them before stepping away.

He stays put, still breathing hard, still with his hands up against the door, so she reaches for him again and tugs him away from the door. "Excuse me, Lord Deveraux," she says, and unbolts it.

"Wait, Mia--" he grabs the door handle as she goes to open it. "You're just going to - you're leaving? What about--"

"What about what, Lord Deveraux?" she asks, and he takes his hand away.

"You're just going to leave me here like this," he realizes. He's glaring at her again. Good.

"You're in a housekeeper's closet," she says, and opens the door. "I'm sure you'll find something in here that'll clean up your mess."

*

**Stable**

  


Deep breaths. If she just takes a few more deep breaths, the lump in her throat will clear and she won't be a blubbering mess who just humiliated herself in front of an entire country.

"You shouldn't hide," and of course, of course it's Nicholas who finds her first. She keeps breathing. "It only makes them gossip more."

"What do you want?" she asks.

There's a pause, and then he says, "Just think, Mia. One more leg and you could've easily outrun your horse."

It's not the words that get to her, it's the tone - taunting, mocking. He's not here to do anything but gloat. She turns to face him and he stares down at her from where he's leaning against a ladder.

"I don't need this right now," she said, and that stupid ball of tears is still in her throat, but the anger is burning it up fast.

"Really? What is it you need, then?" He takes the two steps toward her; she stands up.

"How would you know? You never think of anyone but yourself."

"Well, if we're basing that theory on our last little encounter, you didn't give me much choice," Nicholas points out, still crowding her against the bench.

"Princess?" It's Joe, just outside the door. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah -- _yes_. I'm fine," she calls. "Please let the queen know I'll be there in a few minutes."

"A few minutes?" Nicholas murmurs. "That doesn't give me a lot of time." He slides his hands around her waist, and pulls her off-balance, into his arms.

"Very well, Princess," Joe calls, and she can hear the sound of shoes on the gravel.

"I locked the door," Nicholas says, his hands smoothing down the bodice of her dress to cup her ass. She closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his shoulder for a moment. He's so warm.

"You're so romantic, Lord Devereaux," she says.

He chuckles, the kick of it humming through his ribcage. She fists her hands in the sleeves of his jacket, but doesn't push him away as he presses her up against the saddlehorse. "You bring out the best in me, Your Highness," he says, the words ironic and bitter and welcome.

It's him stepping between her legs this time, although with the acres of skirt between them, she can feel him only as a vague presence moving against her. He snakes one arm around her back, keeping her from falling off the saddle, and fumbles at her jacket with the other. She'd laugh, but after a few seconds he's got the tiny hooks undone at the front and is sliding it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter.

"Better," he murmurs against her neck, and sucks a hard, bruising kiss onto the skin where her shoulder meets her neck - where the jacket will cover it, barely. She opens her mouth to yell at him and gasps instead while he nips at the curve of her breast, still covered by a sleeveless shirt and bra.

She spreads her legs further, not caring about the smile she can feel against her skin, and he rewards her by finding the zipper to her skirt, tugging it down and pulling her to her feet once more so that it can puddle to the ground.

"And better still," he says. "Although the number of clothes I have to get through is really quite aggravating."

"Tradition has its drawbacks," Mia says as he settles her once more on the saddle. He's not gentle about spreading her legs, shoving her thighs apart until she's awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but then he's got his hand pressed against her panties and she forgets everything else.

She grabs the closest thing to hand, which is his stupid hair, and grips it hard. She's probably hurting him, but he just grins and leans down to kiss her.

"Oh, no," she says - groans, really, as two of his fingers press in against the fabric, rubbing against her clit. "You're not going - oh - to make this some great romance..." She closes her eyes for a moment as he scrapes his fingernails down and then up her cunt, her underwear still an agonizing barrier between them.

"I've got you wet and open for me, Your Highness," he says, bright and conversational. "What boundary is kissing going to breach--" he runs his thumb along the join of her hip, and she twitches, her legs spreading wider, "--exactly?" he concludes.

He's got a point, but all she says is, "No kissing."

"All you ever learned from love, you learned from Pretty Woman, then?"

"If anybody's the whore, Lord Devereaux," she snaps, "It's you."

His eyes narrow, although he's still smiling slightly - now it's much more dangerous. He tugs her panties aside and pushes a finger inside her, his thumb sliding up to find her clit. "Well, I've never gotten paid for it," he says, leaning close to whisper in her ear, "But I'm probably more experienced than your average prostitute. You want to know how many girls I've done this to? Got them dripping wet for me, got them begging for it?" He seems to remember something; he catches her eye, his smile widening. "If I made you beg for it right now, Your Highness, would you think I was thinking too highly of myself?"

"Make me beg," she says, "And I'll let you know."

"I do love a challenge," he says, and grins when she clenches against the second finger he slides in. "You're so tense, Mia. Haven't you done this before?"

His thumb circles lazily around her clit, and she feels herself losing her balance -- she lets go of his shoulder and hair to get a grip on the saddle. He actually _laughs_, and tries to step in even closer; she can feel his erection pressing against her thigh. She realizes that she wants him, wants to shove him down on the floor and fuck him hard enough to forget the entire day. But that would mean he'd win, and she can't let that happen. "If you mean getting fingered by a narcissistic blowhard with average technique," she says, ignoring the way her hips are rocking against him and the flush she can feel on her face and neck, "Then yes. I did go to Princeton."

And this time his laugh is forced out of him somehow; he looks down at her, surprised and speculative all at once.

"Tell me, Lord Devereaux," Mia says, "If you're such an expert, why am I bored right now?"

_That_ brings back the anger, thank God, and he's not careful anymore about how he curls his fingers inside her. "You know, I was once with a girl who couldn't come," he says casually. "Tried everything, but she couldn't do it. The saddest thing was that she tried to fake it. But I knew, because her body wouldn't break out in a sweat like this," he says, and leans down to _lick_ her, tongue swiping up her neck. "And she didn't roll her hips into me like this," he continues, and he lightly scrapes his thumbnail over the hood of her clit, before pressing back up against her. "And I could never feel her cunt squeezing me like this."

Mia closes her eyes, and keeps them shut while he teases the orgasm out of her. She tries to control herself, but her whole body seems to jump about three inches to the left, the way it always does when she comes hard, and she's gasping for air and there's no way he doesn't know. But she grits her teeth, throws her head back and groans, "Oh, _Andrew_," and the catch in his breath is almost sweet.

*

**Fountain**

Something about him just makes words come out of her mouth without her consent at all. Even after the training--and there's been a _lot_ of training.  She has the upper hand, right now in this fucked up excuse for a game they're playing, and she's not going to lose it just because she can't shut up.  

"Fantastic party," he remarks.

"It is." Pleasantries.  They can do pleasantries.

"You two make such a lovely couple."

"We do, yes," she agrees, because they do, in all those pictures the press takes they look...like two people who could have their portraits painted and have people call them a handsome couple, years down the road when they're gone and lost to history.  "A very handsome couple."  Which she thinks is a compliment.

"It's a shame you're not attracted to him."

"I know, it--" 

She's going to kill him.  Or have Joe do it.  No.  No, she's definitely going to do it, if only to wipe that smug smile off his face. 

"You--I--come back _here_.  You can't just--say things like that and walk away I will have you know I am very attracted to And_rew_!" She hates heels.  She hates him, she hates this situation, and she hates that she's sixteen whenever she's around him.  Maybe they have a rack in the dungeon...

"Well, _obviously_," he agrees.  They're in the maze now, hidden away.

"I am.  We're really quite perfect for each other: he understands me." It's a weak argument, but it could be worse.  Her choice, not the phrasing.  It could have been the small eight-year-old.  Or the air-traffic-controller lord. 

"Oh, understands you, wow, what _passion_!" he mocks, and then, like he's laying down his trump card: "I didn't hear you mention love."

"You are so jealous," she sneers, and starts to walk away because there, fine, okay, she should go find Andrew and avoid the gossip and--

"Why would I be jealous of Andrew?  He's got to spend the rest of his life married to _you_."

She turns around and hits him with her fan.  "I loathe you."

He actually _hits her back_.  "I loathe _you_."

"I loathed you first!" She's officially regressed to high school; possibly elementary.

The kissing isn't so much of a surprise, even though that's their _one ground rule_ when they're not screwing in closets or -- but it's bugging her that she's not at all in control of this -- this is his game, his rules, and she's playing right into it.  She sinks her teeth into his lower lip and fists a hand in the hair at the back of his skull, yanking back. 

"You're trying to make me not marry Andrew so that you can have the throne," she says, silky, pressing against him.  "And I said no kissing."

"Maybe I am," he agrees, "or maybe I just like kissing you."

"I hate you," she says earnestly, and she's very aware of the fact that her breasts are pressed against his chest and his thigh slid between her legs and she's about six seconds from _riding_ his legs like a wanton slut and when the fuck did she get this turned on?

"I'm really okay with that," he replies, and slides his hand between them and fuck, her dress is flimsy this time.

She shoves, and he loses his balance and they _both_ fall into the water.

Which is freezing, and now, now there's going to be talk and fine, you know what?  In for a penny, in for a pound. 

She gets out because it's kind of gross, but when he climbs out after her she grabs his lapel and shoves him onto the bench and reaches into his pocket, because this is Nicholas and of course he has a condom: he is that much of a dick. 

"I don't get a say in this at all, do I?" he asks, somewhere between detached and turned on.  Considering how much his cock is tenting his pants and boxers before she undoes the former and pulls down the latter, she figures she's excused from ignoring the attempt at detached. 

"Shut up," she says, just because she can, and rolls the condom on. 

He's straddling the bench, legs on either side, and she's pretty much sitting in his lap, balanced on her toes (okay, she takes it back, the heels are excellent, because they give her leverage.)  She leans over him, pulls her panties aside and sinks down on him, all the way and god, yeah, okay, this is...good.  Really really good, and they've barely done anything. 

He really...has talented fingers, and she's digging her fingers into his shoulders and grinding against him and _taking_ in the way that she only ever has with him.  Because, in a really bizarre twist, he gives.  So she grinds her clit against his fingers (it's almost too much--it's going to be too much) and drips, sopping wet around the condom, slicking it so everything's smooth even though her thighs are beginning to burn with the strain.

When she comes, it's almost a surprise, one of the slow builds that has her hunching over, fingernails digging into his shirt and she thinks she can hear something tear and he fucks her through it, slamming against her and his thumb doesn't leave her clit--it's building again, she's going to come again, one right on top of the other and just when she's about to get there he comes, and his thumb stops moving.  She clenches around him in frustration, grating her teeth, but she pulls off--can't help but think she's _dismounting_. 

"I'm marrying Andrew," she says, and then pretends to mull it over as she picks up the hat and rearranges her skirt and pulls her panties back into place.  "but I suppose I could keep you around as a companion.  I'm sure Andrew wouldn't mind at all; he's _very_ understanding.  Maybe in my next interview I'll tell Elsie Penworthy that I keep you in my bed.  Get Joe to fit you with a collar and leash?  Give them a royal scandal worth paying attention to, and let everyone know exactly how much you're willing to whore yourself out." 

She gives him a look as he buttons up, and he's _grinning, _even if it is a little strained around the edges. "Admit it," he says.  "You like me."

She walks away because she's either going to drown him or kiss him, and she can't decide which one is worse.  And she's in enough trouble as it is.

*

**Lake**

These are his secrets: faking sick to get out of school, chocolate milk in cereal, wanting to dancing with her.

The dancing _would_ be the most embarrassing, wouldn't it? He _wants to dance_ with her -- he didn't say, "I should have fucked you in that broom closet when I had the chance" or "I should have gagged you with one of your nine skirts in the stable" or, God, the _fountain_ \-- no, his secret is _I still want to dance with you_.

She acquiesces, because she's going to be a queen in roughly five minutes, and she should get used to this sort of thing.

Get used to acquiescing to requests, not sneaking out of palaces for midnight rendezvouses (_on horseback_, how is this her life) with annoyingly charming gourmet chef Cambridge-educated slut princes looking to stage a coup on her watch.

"We're dancing like grown ups," Mia laughs. She has a hand on his shoulder, her head against his chest, and her right hand clasps his left. "Who would have thought?"

"You'll be queen soon," he says against her ear. "You can probably issue an edict that declares grinding the official dance of Genovia."

"Have a little flag printed with two dry-humping teenagers on the crest," she adds.

"I would love to raise my children there," Nicholas sighs.

She laughs and burrows a little more into his sweater. His hand moves a little further down so he can pull her hips closer -- some sweet way of holding her closer, but really just reminding her of his cock. She straightens up and drops his hands, and she wonders if she should be enjoying his confused look as much as she is.

"Go on," she says, and she pushes his chest until his back is up against a nearby tree. She feels a little overdressed in all her clothes, but kneels in front of him and undoes the button of his jeans.

"What are you doing?" he asks as she lowers the zipper and pulls the front of his jeans and boxers (not silk this time -- bravo!) down to release his cock.

"I'm feeling very… giving tonight," she says lightly. "I suggest you just go with it."

"Because I haven't done that before?" he asks. His hand goes into her hair and pushes it out of her face. "Just let you take me where ever you want?"

"It's been fun," she agrees, and she allows herself a grin up at him before brushing the tip of her tongue up the length and back down. The tip of her tongue meets the tip of his cock and his hand tightens in her hair too tightly and too quickly. "We'll work our way there, then," she says mostly to herself. Mia looks up at him and sees his head is back against the tree, almost not daring to look down.

She clears her throat and when he does look down, she takes him in her mouth, slowly and with her eyes locked on his. She closes her eyes, presses her hands against his hips to keep him down, and licks and sucks him slowly. His cock is so much hotter, literally hotter, than her tongue and her mouth, and she glances up at him again.

His hand is still in her hair and he's trying so hard to hold back -- he doesn't even try to thrust into her mouth or grab her hair too hard and she sighs to herself, wondering how one dark night with a misty lake could take the fun out of being dicks to each other. Mia lets go of his hips and wraps one hand around the base of his cock while her tongue presses against the tip in her mouth.

That gets the hand in her hair gripping a little tighter and she looks up again -- he has his hand in his _own_ hair, which is just adorable. His mouth is just slightly open and she can hear his breathing become uneven and jagged. Her hand moves from his cock to his balls, massaging them just a little before she takes him deep into her throat.

He bucks and thrusts into her mouth, and he groans as he comes, one loud groan of relief as if _he_ had been doing all the work. She swallows and then sits back on her heels; he can do himself up. She wipes her hand that has some of her spit and his come on the leg of his jeans before running her fingers through her hair and getting it all in order.

"You held back," she says as she looks up at him. He does up his jeans, fixes his shirt, but she smiles because he can't quite bring himself to move from the tree, now can he? "Just until the end there."

"Well," he begins, but he's got nothing, not even a bitchy little quip. She grins and he joins her on the ground. He lays on his side, pillowing his head with his folded arm. She watches as he motions, and raises an eyebrow.

"I see you're in a place beyond language," she laughs.

"Would you please," he begins, "Join me on the ground, Princess Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi? And make me the _happiest_ man on earth?"

"Always taking it too far," Mia sighs. "And how do you know my full name, anyway?"

"It's a matter of public record," he replies. "Also, you're on Wikipedia."

"I knew that. Are you?"

"I am, actually."

"I bet you change your photo every day," she says as she lies down and mimics his position.

"Every week. Thank you, but I do have a life."

After a moment, he leans in and she does, too, expecting to be kissed, but instead he presses his cheek to hers and laughs near her ear. She sighs loudly so he flinches, and then feels his hand at her zipper. She looks down and laughs. "You unbuttoned that with one hand? Without looking? All right, maybe there _can_ be some use for you somewhere."

"I almost pity you, if that's all it takes to impress you," he says. He tugs at her jeans and panties, lowering them just enough to rest his hand against her cunt. She raises her eyebrow, and then sighs and turns on her back to shimmy a little further out of her jeans.

"This is needlessly complicated," she informs him.

He shrugs and once she's on her back, he's half on her with one hand stroking her cheek and his other hand still resting its length against her cunt. "Does everything have to have a _purpose_? Can't we just lie here lazily, talk --"

"Fuck?" she asks.

"I just wanted to return the favor," he says. "So, Princeton. What would be the most… discreet way of doing this?"

"Quickly," she replies. "Some of us --" She doesn't finish because, ha, _Andrew_, that's still. Yeah.

Nicholas actually listens, or maybe he infers what she's thinking about, because he sits up and pulls her jeans and panties completely off and puts them aside.

"So much for romance --" She gasps and shuts up because, god, he just _dove_ on her and lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, two fingers slipping into her and his tongue pushing against her clit. He alternates between a flat, moving pressure and the tip of his tongue mimicking hers on the tip of his cock. She opens her eyes to control herself before something stupid happens like she shows any kind of genuine appreciation.

She's stupidly wet and can feel herself _dripping_ until his tongue leaves her clit and licks lower into her, tongue-fucking her the best he can. She feels close, so close, and his tongue moves back to her clit, but his other hand, drier and rougher because it wasn't in her, slides into her and fucks her just as skillfully.

"Oh my God, you're ambidextrous," she moans. "Fuck you, fuck you, just fuck you so fucking _hard_. That is a secret you tell _right off the bat_."

He _laughs_ and she's sure he just nipped her, and the sharpness gets a tiny shriek out of her. He slides a third finger into her and it's too much, the way he's flexing his fingers and stretching her just because he can. Once he starts sucking on her clit and nips her again, she covers her mouth to stop herself from being loud and lets her hips lift up as she jerks against him.

She comes down from it and glares down at him -- he waited until she could _feel _his fingers (thick, short and manicured nails, she knows the type) slide out of her, the sensation just a little too much to be pleasurable.

"So," he says as he rests on his stomach between her legs and sucks one of his fingers like he's just been eating cake batter and not _her_, "Are we even?"

"That's cute," she says, and he smirks at her, enjoying another finger. She stands, grabs her panties and jeans, and pulls them on, narrowing her eyes at him and zipping up quickly so she doesn't give away how her legs are kind of protesting against being used.

He sits up and goes to rest against the tree trunk, legs stretched out in front of him. He wipes his hands against his jeans and pulls a blanket up to his waist. She's still standing and he shrugs. "It's chilly."

"I'll bet," she replies dryly. She looks around and asks, "You're staying out here?"

"For a little while," he says. "It's such a lovely evening."

It really is. She sits down against the tree again, pulls some of the blanket around her legs, and tells herself another fifteen minutes and she'll head back to bed.

*

**Coronation**

"I am in love with the Queen-to-be," Nicholas says, on one knee in front of her, "and I am inquiring if she loves me, too."

Okay, so apparently these big gestures apparently come easily to him.  Things like riding a bicycle to burst in and foil his uncle's plot.  Things like leaving, washing his hands of the whole thing so he _couldn't_ be used as a pawn (and for a second, right up until about a minute ago, she'd thought maybe he'd washed his hands of her.  That he was going to go to Paris or London or Barcelona and be a chef or someone's arm candy.  It's not as though she would have blamed him, not really, but she'd…have missed him).

If he ever proposes—she cuts that line of thought off right there because oh, hell no.

"Do you have a chicken for my table?" she asks, and thinks it doesn't come out too strangled.

"No, I think my kitchen is out of chickens," he replies, pulling an apologetic face.  He doesn't look wrecked which—she was kind of afraid he wasn't going to get it or something so…it's good.  It's good, chickens can be the language of their love.   

That seems like it would be fitting.

Mia makes a production of being disgusted with him, then laughs, and when they kiss it's a real kiss, not her fucking with him or just fucking him, a kiss for the sake of kissing, arms around each other and pressed together.  Her name on his lips is still so sweet—just like it was the first time, in that closet, except this time…this time she wants to hear him say it again, make him whimper it until it's the only word he knows.  

"Did your foot just pop?  Who are you, Grace Kelly?" he demands when they pull back, peering over her shoulder at her leg (or her ass), and she grips his hair and pulls his head back, raising her eyebrows severely.

"There will be no mocking of your Queen," she informs him, and he laughs, just a little, pulling back against her hand so she has to grip tighter to keep hold of him, and his eyes darken, a flush on his cheeks.

"Oh really?"

"It's not too late for me to invest in that leash," she reminds him, cupping his cheek with her other hand and running her thumb along his lower lip.  His tongue chases the movement.  "And when I'm Queen I can do whatever I like, so I'd be nice to me if I were you."  

"And what if I want to be bad to you?" he asks, nipping her thumb and leaning in, eyes on her lips and she loosens her grip because really, he does have a fantastically talented mouth and she remembers the lake vividly—

And then there's that discreet little cough.

"I think you have duties elsewhere," he says, and she sighs and lets her hands fall, adjusting her robe.

"I do have a coronation," she agrees.  "I made it into a kind of big deal, I can't be late for it."

He nods, and steps back, taking one of her hands and kissing the knuckles.  "No, that would be a tragedy."  He sucks her first finger into his mouth and she's about to say fuck it and sit on the throne and put him on his knees when there's another higher-pitched cough that means Paolo is ready to shape her hair into a humpback whale or an emu or a rampaging elephant or whatever the fuck queens are wearing this season in his head.  

She is absolutely not disappointed.  "Save that thought," she says, and brushes her fingers against his dick and turns to her lady's maids with a sigh. 

*

The coronation is everything she could have wanted, but her dress is voluminous and her crown is giving her a headache and by three in the morning, when she's finally allowed to go back to her rooms, she waves away the yawning Brigitte and Brigitta because she actually can undress herself, and she's so wired and tired that she might yell at them or be less than gentle and they're delicate flowers she has to handle with kidgloves.

She leans against the door and exhales, putting the scepter and orb down on the breakfast buffet and then taking the crown off and rubbing the back of her neck .  

"You look exhausted," Nicholas says, and she's going to get that collar and put a fucking bell on it.  

"I had a long night, unlike some people."  She narrows her eyes when she spots him.  "Did you sleep _in my bed?"_

"It's very comfortable," he agrees, voice sleep-rough and completely unabashed.  

"I'm only going to make you Consort," she warns him, fighting with the cape and kicking off her shoes.

"I'll get more chickens," he tells her, "bribe my way to King."

She gives him a long look because he is _useless _and then begins fighting with her dress.  

"I'm your Queen, help me with this," she says.    The beauty of him is that he really is so biddable.  She could do anything with him, and now _there's_ a thought.  He does, hands nimbly undoing the hundreds of tiny buttons until she can step out.  He eyes her stockings appreciatively, and she rolls her eyes and pushes him onto the bed, straddling his hips, his dick nestled against her ass.  

"And what else can I do to _serve_ my queen?" he asks, and he's bullshitting but not really, she can see it in the way his eyes go even darker, the particular emphasis on "serve." 

"Eat me," she murmurs against his lips, because she wants his mouth and her pussy is already clenching hungrily.  They have the whole night and she's _Queen_ and feeling giddy on the power.  

She rolls off of him, and lays down, lets him pull the lace panties down her thighs and throw them god-knows-where.  He leaves her stockings—thigh high, "traditional"—on, and she undoes her bra and flings it across the room, rolling a nipple between her fingers.  He settles between her legs, and licks up the seam of her pussy and then back down, pressing his tongue to her clit every time he slides by it.  He keeps her thighs open with his hands braced on them, thumbs sliding in to open her up and give him better access.  Mia's heels dig into the mattress, muscles clenching, and she's already reaching for it.

"Lord Devereaux," she warns, reaching down and fisting her hand in his hair and pressing down against his mouth, and gasps in relief when he finally settles into it, sucks her clit hard and slides two fingers into her, rubbing and crooking hard inside her and she's flushing, arching and almost there.  She rolls her hips and clenches her toes as he fucks her with his fingers and sucks her off and then she's coming, so hard the noise she makes is rough and unrecognizable as her own voice, and his fingers are still there, working her through it and just this side of painful.

She unclenches the hand from his hair—her hand aches, a little, and then looks down at him, his mouth and chin shiny and smug.  

"If you don't have a condom," she starts, scraping the words past her too-dry throat, and he's surging up over her, reaching onto the bedside table and sliding out of his boxers (silk, god, she though they'd gotten past this point, though it is a special occasion and oh, shit—), and then he's in, and he feels big and he's stretching her open and it's good, really good, better if she's on top, though, so she shoves at him and gasps, "Get—on your back."

And he goes, immediately, hands on her hips so she can roll and bounce and grind on top of him, one hand on his shoulder, sliding up to cup against his jaw, his lips open and breathing hard, and she slides her first two fingers into his mouth and he sucks, teeth scraping against her knuckles.  He's spread out under her, perfect, hands on her hips, his whole body straining up into her.  

She leans down, presses her tits to his chest, rolling her hips so he fills her in sweet, languid thrusts.  She mouths his neck and he groans around her fingers, which she slides out of his mouth to press against the pillow, clenching it and bearing down on him, coming and clenching and so so wet.

"God, Mia," he groans , and he's still so hard inside her, breath hitching when she pulls off.  God, she wants to just keep him, keep him just like this.   

She slides down, and he leans up on his elbows, eyes confused when they meet hers.  The look of realization is priceless, and she keeps eye contact as she wraps her lips around the head of his dick, ignoring the taste of the condom—

"Why does this taste like pears?" she demands, frowning down at the dick in her hand because seriously, _what_?

"Oh my god, Mia, _please_," he begs, and fine, yes.

She can taste herself and the pears, and it's very strange but not the point while he writhes and tries so hard not to buck into her mouth.  She's curious, and she's got him here, so she slides her free hand down to play with his balls, rolling them and then stroking the smooth skin behind, going further back while he makes helpless choked sounds above her. She hums around the cock in her mouth while she teases his hole, sliding her finger around and pressing against it and the first time she presses a little too hard he bucks, hits the back of her throat, and isn't that interesting? She takes her hand away, reaches down slides her finger inside her pussy, slicking it and then sliding inside him, just the one finger to the one knuckle, but it's enough and he's coming, shaking and _gone_.

"Oh my god," he says when she rolls the condom off, ties it and tosses it in the trash by the bed.  She'll make him flush it tomorrow, and they should both clean off, but she lays down beside him, panting.  Her jaw feels used in a good way, and Nicholas is breathing hard, head on her shoulder.

"This still isn't some great romance," she says, once they've both caught their breath, him curled against her, her fingers sliding through his hair.  

"I made the big gesture," he replies, shifting his head to look at her.  "I mean, it wasn't Richard Gere in the limo, but I think giving up any claim on a throne—"

She kisses him just to shut him up, and wonders if she can get Lily to go to Good Vibrations and get her a harness, because she is going to make him take it up the ass.  Tie him to the headboard and gag him and...

Well.  It's good to be Queen.


	2. Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For lama_mama, who wanted another chapter/section/thing. The title says it all. Set a few years after the movie.

Nicholas had pretty much moved in, or rather, never left. (Yeah, that whole “well, I’ll be leaving now” thing never actually happened, go figure.)

After the coronation and after her grandmother had moved with Joe to the small summer palace just outside the capital, Mia listened patiently to her PR staff of one regarding The Nicholas Situation, but kicking him out until something about their relationship was Settled in a manner worthy of publicizing just -- hadn’t happened.

“You’re going to make me wait -- how long did Joe wait for your grandmother?” Nicholas asks one night, his head on her stomach as she stroked his hair, tugging it when he got too comfortable.

“Decades,” she replies. “Maybe I’ll be Genovia’s Virgin Queen.”

“Let me know when tickets for that spectacle go on sale,” he says, and she tries not to squirm as his laughter tickles that spot just below her navel. “I will personally camp out weeks beforehand, just to ensure I don’t miss it.”

“Genovia’s Bachelor Queen, then,” she says. “I like the sound of that.”

She didn’t mention to him just how damn often Parliament and everyone and their mother brought up the topic of Nicholas and when they were going to give the country something resembling traditional stability -- which was when she sharply (but sweetly) reminded whoever that _she_ was the queen and if they had a _complaint_, they could go ahead and file one with their local government office and it would reach her through proper channels, but her _personal life_ was personal, thanks.

“Kind of isn’t,” Nicholas points out.

“I swore to govern the country, and to cause law and justice and mercy to be executed in all judgments,” she reminds him. “There’s nothing anywhere in there that gives anyone the right to challenge my personal decisions in my individual life.”

He shrugs and offers a souffle, and she accepts it begrudgingly, because the boy is a souffle-making wonder and she’s more than once thought about adding it to the royal seal of the country, or if he’d be willing to have that shit exported because damn, Genovia’s GDP would skyrocket.

But all of it just feels like she’s still in some kind of limbo -- that she’s not making progress as much as she’s juggling, or. She kind of wants to think in sports metaphors (guess who keeps ESPN on as background noise when she brings her laptop into his suite, gross, what) -- it feels like she’s running defense all the time and can’t see an opportunity to begin an offensive until people shut the hell up about who she might or might not marry.

“You’d _give in_ to them?” Nicholas asks. “Hold on, I need my glasses to complete the picture.” He grabs the glasses off the night stand and places them on the edge of his nose so he can look over the frame at her. “You would _give them_ what they _want_?”

“I mean, if that’s --”

“You’ve given me the bare minimum of what _I_ want,” he says. “Being here with you. Listening to you be intelligent and patient and a complete bitch to me day in and day out. Has that shut me up?”

“Hm, I like the way you turn the microcosm of our not-relationship into a metaphor for the rest of the country and world,” she muses. “But you see how I can’t, without seriously compromising my Bachelor Queen thing, pin down each member of Parliament and the national press and fuck them with my strap-on of choice, right?”

“You’re so literal,” he sighs. “Mia: just do what you have to do, and if they complain, tell them to shut up because you really _do_ have an appointment with Prince William in the morning to mock his male pattern baldness and explain why you’re not sending any troops to this clusterfuck in the Middle East, so you literally don’t have the time for a slow, leisurely fuck tonight.”

“You need to go back to being just a stupid playboy,” she notes. “Try and crash a car or two while I’m in London. At least get an outrageous parking ticket or visit the local orphanage completely drunk, would you?”

“I’ll do all those things,” he agrees, “And burn down the convent while I’m in the neighborhood.”

*

It’s a PR nightmare and she is going to choke the living shit out of him, so fucking help _him_ because she is going to _kill him_. It’s all she can think of after she smiles for the cameras, pulls him up from his place on one knee, hugs him tightly, and leads him away to a private little ready room in the Austrian palace she’s visiting on some tour or another.

There, in the room where Mozart gave concerts, where other important historical stuff happened that she didn’t learn about in high school due to the whole sad outcast/princess thing, there she arrives with Nicholas in tow and she shoves him inside and slams the gigantic door behind her. She hears the guards outside shuffle in front of the door and turns back to Nicholas, walking up to him and shoving him hard in the shoulder.

“_No_,” she hisses with as much anger as she’s ever felt for him, like, _ever_. More than the stable, more than the fountain, more than the post-lake scene with the paparazzo, dammit she is _pissed_. “_You_ do not _do this_,” she says.

“I can’t _propose_ to --”

“You can, yes, technically propose, you are physically able to make an offer of marriage to me; as a human being, you are able to form the words ‘will you marry me’ with your mouth and expel them so the sound waves reach my ears.” Mia hates that, even with her heels on, she has to look up an inch into his eyes, so she grabs the knot of his tie and says through her teeth, “Kneel.”

“Kinky,” he manages.

“Zip it,” she snaps as he kneels in front of her, sitting back on his haunches and looking up at her. “How _dare_ you think I’m just some bimbo you picked up in a bar or at your stupid college debate club, brought home to Mom, and then just casually _asked_ to marry you in front of _the international press_?”

“My mother’s dead, so that would be a little weird -- did you mean your --?”

She tightens her grip on the knot a little, bringing it against his Adam’s apple.

“You may suggest, you may _hint_, you may even discuss with me the possibility of one day marrying me -- as we have before, how silly of me to think you were listening! --  but you will not _ask_. I ask. _I ask_. And I will ask you in private, not in front of those _leeches_ where you couldn’t refuse me without humiliating me.”

“Mia,” he chokes out, “I’d never --”

“Damn right you’d never,” she replies, “Because I am a _catch_, not a Rhodes scholar like Mrs. Andrew Whatever Duke of Fuckall but impressive in my own right. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have the right to refuse.”

On ‘refuse’, she shoves him and knocks him off balance so he’s sitting on what’s probably an ancient, hallowed rug to the Austrians, looking like a little boy who’s just fallen and skinned his knee, except he’s so stupidly _cheeky_, because that’s who Nicholas is, the little shit. She straddles his legs and pulls on his hair to tilt his head back, treasuring his apprehensive look as her lips trace the curve of his jaw from the hollow just below his ear to his chin, letting her teeth press against the sensitive skin until she feels him shallowly exhale against her hair.

“You’re a jerk,” she whispers, “Always have been, always will be.”

“I’m your jerk,” he replies. “Always have been, always will be.”

“Remember that,” Mia says, “You’re _my_ jerk, and you act when I tell you.” She loosens his tie and unbuttons the first couple of buttons, and lowers her mouth to the smooth skin near his shoulder joint so she can mark him, thoroughly. He leans back, supporting himself on his hands, Mia clenching her thighs around him to feel him and relish how stupidly hard he’s getting just from watching her lower her head and suck his skin red and wet.

When her hair falls into her face, she pulls off him and lets it fall away without a touch. Nicholas’s lips are red, probably as red as hers, because he probably licked them, bit them so he wouldn’t moan, pressed them together to stifle himself, did everything in his power to make himself look as fucking wanton as he could manage without actually doing anything _to_ her.

“Finger me,” she decides. She rushes in to cover his mouth with hers and presses her chest against him as he struggles to keep his balance, one hand behind him and one hand slipping under her dress and past her panties. She wraps her arms around his neck and tilts his head back, tongue-fucking him while two fingers rush into her to the hilt, just a little too much and too wide for her. She clenches around him so he can’t move and he pushes against her deeper, his finger working her clit just a little until she releases him and focuses on his mouth and pulling his hair as she kisses him, using her teeth and gripping just a little too much -- it’s just how they are with each other, just a little too much, so an engagement happens in Austria, a declaration of mutual loathing happens in a fountain, and she dreads to think what next and where. She pushes down against his hand, taking his fingers in so deep it hurts a little and hurts amazingly, that ache of being fucked too hard and too quickly.

It’s a quick build up and release, probably because she’s still so upset and what is she even going to tell all those reporters outside, and she’s still _mad_ at him, so the minute she feels herself coming, she pulls away from him and walks to the bathroom just off to the side, leaving him on the floor with what she knows is a hilarious erection he’ll have to take care of before they go outside again. She doesn’t care if she’s a little shaky still, if they’ll have to fuck on a creaky, uncomfortable (and likely creepy) bed in whatever ancient and revered palace is hosting them tonight -- it’s left her wanting more and she can handle being slightly on edge for the rest of the day if it means Nicholas’s moans will add to the rumors of a palace being haunted or something.

As she checks herself in the full-length mirror, he pauses in the doorway and narrows his eyes at her before walking over to the toilet, some ancient toilet Churchill probably shit in during a summit, and jacks off into it quickly, silently. Nicholas then walks around her, excuses himself so he can reach the sink, and that’s when Mia catches his tired, bemused eyes in the mirror above the sink.

“Will you marry me, Lord Deveraux?” she asks his flushed reflection, unbuttoned shirt, the bright red mark on his chest, his slightly wrinkled pants that hadn’t been pressed and starched enough to withstand her hips grinding against his. “It’ll be a very long enga --”

“I accept,” he replies, meeting her eyes evenly.

“You won’t be king,” she says.

“I could have staged a coup of Luxembourg by now if I really wanted to be king,” he says.

“Well, yeah, Fat Louis could stage a coup of Luxembourg between his post-lunch and pre-dinner naps, it’s not _hard_.”

“Fine then,” he says. “I’ll get you Luxembourg for your birthday.” Content with her appearance, she leaves the bathroom but he calls out, “Also!”

She turns around and he holds up a small black box, which he tosses to her and she, magically, manages to catch. “Since I accepted your offer of an engagement,” he explains as she pops the box open and smiles at it.

“You did, didn’t you,” she muses, and then reaches into her cleavage, just between her breast and the underwire, to pull out a silver ring that might just be in Nicholas’s size. “I was a little worried you would grope me while I slept on the plane and find it, but luckily, _Transformers_ was more exciting than my breasts.”

“They _transform_ into _robots_,” he explains as she slips the ring on his finger. “It’s already warm, Mia.”

“Cry me a river,” she sighs as he slips onto her finger the ring he raided from his family heirlooms. “So. We have rings now.”

“Very sharp,” Nicholas comments. “Those Austrians won’t pull one over on you, will they?”

“Shut. Up.”

Mia makes sure to take his hand in hers before she opens the door, to squeeze it quickly and press their hands together so the rings clink so low only they can hear it, and that’s all the positive reinforcement he’ll get on the matter until she has to stifle her yells against his shoulder tonight, where ever they are.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, dammit, Wikipedia DID exist in 2004.
> 
> Leupagus knows what the title means, but didn't feel like informing those of us posting the damn thing. Sigh.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Royal Engorgement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/843575) by [Grammarwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grammarwoman/pseuds/Grammarwoman)




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